A sense of literary death

A sense of literary death

I was with her the last time...
She was my better half...
How do I explain in words what love is? When Love to me was her. Love between us had to happen. I can't think of her without tears. I can't think of her without tears but I wouldn't have it another way.

They murdered her for a plastic card. Can you believe that? It happened like this see. I am a street cleaner by trade. My wife was coming home the eve of Christmas Eve. So I'm in my vehicle, clearing the streets by the park, with me brother in law, Ernie, in the driving seat. And I hear this woman scream just as we pass the park. And me and Ernie, we think for a bit. What if it were one of our sisters or someone else we knew? We said this but we were both convinced that it was a stranger. And in situations like this, we both being big strong African men, we got to help, don't we. We had a feeling that she might be a little...well you know it could just be friends messing about and suddenly we two turn up to...'help'. I know what that looks like. I've had enough of that in my own time. But at the end of the day, you can't let this things slide. Not us fathers. So there's me turning round the corner and I see this shadow fall to the floor. She lay there on the ground dead like. Another shadow ran away. I already knew its too late. So as I'm approaching I get my mobile phone out and call the police and the ambulance. Both said they were on their way.
It was here that I dropped my phone. My heart went from nought to sixty. My muscles went all jelly like. My jaw dropped open. 'Audrey' I says. 'Ernie that's my Audrey'.
'What! Maria? your joking!' he said.
I'm not of the educated lot, I didn't know how to react. I was f**king stuffed. You know how in movies, you always see a woman fall to the floor. It's never a man. Well that's bollocks. Men sh*t themselves just as much you know. My head was spinning. I was short of breath. And this incredible heat took over me, next thing I know, my legs gave way, I fell to the floor. I saw Ernie run off after the mugger. Oh my head felt so heavy. Must of cracked something. I could feel the blood as it got into my eyes.

When I woke, nobody was there. Just me and my wife with our children’s presents. 'Oh god' I says. I mean I try to say. My throats dry, it's hard to breathe let alone speak. So I fought in the only way I could. I shouted my lungs out. Nothing verbal. Just one long long agonising scream. Then I put my hands on my knees and I took a look at me wife... You never think it's going to happen to you... Oh god. This is still so hard to write... I got up and went over to my wife and held her in my arms. I don't know why...but my hands...they...they began shaking. I wasn't controlling it. You have to experience it to know what I'm talking about. I was powerless. And there I felt her die.

I did something strange then. I looked into the bags. She had brought presents for our kids. I broke down again. Tears strolled down as I knew that I had to tell my seven year old girl that her mother wouldn't be coming home again. I went over and over the scene in my head. My new born was with her grandmother.

Oh god give me strength. I remember this one time I heard a story about how this white doctor left a man to die. He wouldn't touch a man. Well the flashing lights came, it seemed like hours later, they found her on me. I found out later that they had arrived within five minutes. Thank you god for changing the times. At first I was horrified. I remembered the old story of how white folks left us to die. There was a white man and a white woman but as god is my witness, they tried their damn hardest. As if colour didn't mean nothing. When the lady in green overalls said my Maria wasn't dead. I put my hand to my mouth and thanked my lord. The man took me aside and told me that I was in shock or something. I couldn't half hear him. He said something about breathing.

My Maria died on the way to hospital. It weren't their fault. I was there in the ambulance. Severe internal bleeding. It took so long to get to the hospital. My hands kept going to my mouth in disbelief... I..felt heart broken.

My Wife, she carried a baby. So soon after our last. I mean I am the stupidest person alive to forget that- and it is my mortal shame. But it is the truth. It didn't come to mind. So for a plastic card my unborn baby died. She was at such an early stage that there was no way the doctors could save the poor darling.

We'd already done what we always did and gave her a proper name the minute we knew my maria was pregnant. We called her Audrey. My Maria's middle name. You always hear about children being named after their father or grandfathers and sometimes -though rarer- grandmothers even. But never mothers. The people who actually take care of the little darlins for nine whole months get pushed to the side for names of fruits, gods or goddeses, places of conception and even celebrities.

My eyes were dried with tears then. It stung horribly. They gave her a bed of the time being. Thank you I said. They said that my wife was carrying a donor card. I said I knew. I don't agree with it mind. The doctor stood silent. He turned to go. He then said, there was an East Indian woman down the corridor with five children under sixteen, three of them under ten. That woman needed a kidney transplant. He didn't say nothing else.

My head was bandaged and tears fell down my face. I just thought of crying and it all came out. Every bad memory in my life came to haunt me again. Things even I had thought I'd forgotten. And no hope. No hope at all. I wasn't angry. Only because I didn't have the energy. Or perhaps cause I couldn't see the point in doing that. It was pointless.

I died a hundred times that night. First when I saw the woman fall. Second when I realised it was my Maria. Then when she died. Then when my baby died. Also when I thought of coming home to tell my children their mother wouldn't return home for Christmas. When I told Maria's mother her child had died. And each time the nurse who filled in the transplant form ticked a box. They wanted her heart, her lungs, liver, her kidney and more and more. Even her skin. I said yes for Maria for a few things. The skin stayed. I died again when I saw her face through the glass window. Again when I lay next to her. Again when she closed her eyes. When the doctor called her time of death. I died a hundred times that night. When I told my children face to face. And when the poor angels didn't understand. And I died once more when it began to snow and I realised it was Christmas. I beat the walls. I loved her so much.

And then a man walked into the ward corridor where I was sitting on a bench. A South Asian business man. He looked like the Mediterranean model you see in that watch advert. He wore a white shirt, with a loose black tie. The shirt was tucked into polished black trousers. He said 'are you Maria Sutherland's husband?'. He then insisted on shaking my hand. He thanked me and Maria for saving his daughter's life. He then asked me if he could possibly be at the funeral. He asked so sincerely and I could see he was holding his tears in. I still couldn't speak words so I nodded. The father hugged me. And thanked me more profusely then.

I was awestruck then. I had gone through all the emotions tonight. I'm only a simple man. And this man was thanking me for saving his daughter's life. I didn't know what to feel then. I don't know if it was wrong or right what I felt. But I felt yes, in all the grief, I felt just a little bit proud. Even in her grave, my Maria saved lives. For it was lives. I went to the six people she saved tonight. And they were crying. And I thought such are human beings.

I went out for fresh air. I breathed in the cold air. The snow stopped. Everything was still. The silence was...peaceful. I don't think I even thought a single thought then. And time, it just passed.

I met a young man, an author and a journalist, that night. He was crawling the streets. Troubled to his soul. We got talking and he told me his story and I told him mine. And he said to me that sometimes writing was therapy to him. And I said to him that music was therapy to me. The young lad said to me that he talked to lots of people and that the world was a cruel place. The world was a depressing place. He said my case wasn't unique. This must happen every night. I clipped him round the ear. I said you suffer for no good reasons. He sipped his coffee and said Dawn will come at the end of every night. The boy smiled. I sat confused. I began to say how I am an uneducated idiot and I don't understand how-. He shushed me and said. No! your thoughts, actions, and experiences tonight are more worthy on a page then my own. He then asked if I wrote the story of tonight, how would I start. I began saying I would start by saying how great my wife was. He got a little peeved. He said that's not what you said to me. The very first thing you said is that you were with her the moment she died. That you love her. Don't put yourself in a writer's shoes. The best of writers out there are trying to put themselves in your shoes. These events aren't planned. If its the truth start with the most important truth. The idiot was speaking loudly by now. We were getting some attention. He then says to me, oh to hell with my literary tradition. If you want to talk about love, let love have its space.
Then he stopped. No, he said...the best of writers, they...put the focus on the characters...
The boy was clearly confused.